


and here he comes like don juan

by godtiermeme



Series: Another Young Adult Misadventure of the Gayest Proportions [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Ableist Language, Agender Karkat Vantas, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Asexual Karkat, Bisexual Dave Strider, F/F, Gen, Hispanic Karkat, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Humanstuck, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Physical Disability, Running Away, Stalking, Young Adult Fanfic, but also Drama™, but also Fun™, gay wars episode ivv: the conspiracy awakens, there will be Drama™, you got yourself some creepy phone calls there man
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-07-27 00:22:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7596079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p class="def">And, so, a pair of young and naive fuckwits wander ever deeper into this massive catastrophe described as "adulthood."</p><p class="def"><b>OR...</b> In which our protagonists are faced with everything from the most outrageous of dramas to the most mundane of fluff.</p><p class="def">
  <b>This is the sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/6738577"><span class="u">holy shit we have quite possibly the most fuckin ridiculous love quadrilateral on our hands</span></a>. Reading the first part of this series is not necessary but HIGHLY recommended. Although, admittedly, it's mostly really <i>really</i> long enemies-to-lovers fic.</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> **seriously you should probably read the first part of the series**   
> 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [_**just too unreal all this / **watching the words fall from my lips****_](http://www.metrolyrics.com/the-word-of-your-body-lyrics-spring-awakening.html) [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gon2Y3wIHqM)]

**Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you’ve been dating a certain jackass by the name of Dave Strider for… well… quite a while. You’ve built for yourself the first true and worthwhile relationship of your life, and it’s with the last person you would have ever expected.**

So… Dave Strider… 

What can you possibly say about Dave Strider? 

Well, your first impression of him was lackluster. When you first met him, you’d thought of him in very simple, albeit politically incorrect, terms. He was a conceited jerk in a wheelchair. And the color of that damned chair was as garish as his personality. Bright red. Like his eyes and his dorm room bedding. 

And, yet, over time, you somehow fell for him. You came to find his mannerisms and quirks endearing. Annoying, certainly, but endearing.

He’s not perfect, of course; no one is perfect. Absolutely no one is perfect. And Dave is no exception. He can be a pain in the ass. Still, you’re happy. You’re happy with the life you’ve made with him. You’re happy to sit with him for hours in the record store you helped him establish. 

And, so far, you can’t find anything of note to regret. Sure, you’ve gotten yourself into a hole with his record store. Money is flying from your pocket like ice melts in the heat of summer. But, it doesn’t matter to you; if anything, your parents will help you out. After all, they’re pretty fond of Dave. 

Of course, they’re not exactly enthusiastic about him. But, they like him enough. 

 

* * *

 

**On April 8 th, the world dumped a massive, steaming pile of shit on you. By the time you and Dave woke, the news was already out. The parole hearing for Bro—the jackass whose toxic influence still taints Dave’s thoughts—was completed without his testimony. Bro was released. Even more disturbingly, those very crimes were dismissed. In fact, he wasn’t even paroled; no, he was straight up set free. The bastard is walking as free as schoolgirl, and he’s already starting to petition for Dave’s return.**

**By noon, you received a call from your parents. Apparently, Kankri had added fuel to the flames of their uncertainty. He’d persuaded them that their concerns about Dave were worthwhile.**

**And, from there, their decision was swift.**

**You’ve been cut from the family finances. Any support you received—anything to compensate for the deficits from the record store—was to be a thing of the distant past.**

**Now…**

**Now…?**

**What the _fuck_ are you going to do now?**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments, feedback, and all that are appreciated. i really jumped the gun posting this, so if you've got any idea or maybe wanna cowrite it even i'm game. message me here or on my blog.


	2. I swore I'd sell my soul for one love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [_and as i lost control, **i swore i'd sell my soul for one love** / who would sing my song and fill this emptiness inside me_](http://www.rockymusic.org/lyricscat/phantom-paradise/#217) **[[video link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=luubWjn2rA4)]**

**Monday / May 2 ND / 11:30 AM**

**Your name is Karkat Vantas…**

"Run away with me."

Those four words that explain why you're in a cramped Model C motorhome. You're not sure of the brand, and the year it was made is even more of a mystery. Hell, nearly everything about it is shrouded in layer upon layer of foggy obscurity.

Its build features two beds. A double bed is above the front seats, and an accessible twin bed is at the back. Lining the walls of the space in between are the standard features of every motorhome. A long sofa, a two-person dining table, an oven, a microwave, a fridge, a desk, a wardrobe, some drawers, and a bathroom. An old television is mounted in the compartment against the passenger seat. It's one of those outrageous sorts—big, clunky, and probably filled with dead things and dust.

Right now, Dave is sprawled out on the sofa. His head is propped against a formidable stack of throw pillows.

In the background, the television drones on. "Today is going to be hot," announces the balding weatherman, "Hot! Hot! Hot! Upper nineties by noon. The high will be ninety-nine."

Dave groans. He covers his face with his forearm.

"How long do you think this will last?" you ask, leaning your elbows against the dining table. After fishing around in the little plastic bowl, you pull out a handful of roasted peanuts. "Really, Dave, I support your stupid ass in whatever the fuck you want to do, but this is quite possibly the most harebrained scheme I've ever been involved in. No…" You pause, consume your snack, and continue. "I haven't been involved in some bullshit like this. Your plan is beyond anything I've ever heard of."

He shrugs. With a bit of effort, he shoves himself into a sitting position. "Probably not long," he admits. With a few swift, smooth movements, he lifts himself into his wheelchair. A few minutes later, he pulls himself into the driver's seat. "Enjoy this roller coaster of shit while you can, bud."

"Did you just call me 'bud'?"

Again, Dave shrugs. "Possibly."

 

**Monday / May 2 ND / 10:30 PM**

The sleeping arrangements aren't exactly negotiable. It's not as if Dave can sprout wings from his conceited ass and fly into the overhead double bed. It's all perfectly clear, yet it's so impossibly annoying. You haven't slept alone in a while.

And neither has he.

Now, you find yourself feeling alone as fuck. Despite the fact that it's hot and humid, you feel cold. Maybe it's not cold. Maybe cold isn't the word, but it's the best one you can think of. To be alone is strange, and you find the extra space intimidating.

Between the two of you, there's a poignant silence. Only the sounds of the wilderness outside keep you from thinking that you're in some sort of void.

From your vantage point, you can see him. The moonlight shines against him, highlighting his hair like strands of thin silver. At every movement, those strands shift. You can see the soft lines of his shoulders and arms. His muscles are defined, but practical; that is to say that they're not the strange, rigid lines of a bodybuilder.

"Jackass!" His voice breaks into your thoughts.

You respond with a quiet hum.

"I…" He clears his throat. He coughs. It's that same awkward sort of cough that people do when they're trying to avoid something. "There's some room in the bed," he mutters.

With perhaps a bit too much zeal, you quickly descend from your spot. You stumble forwards and squeeze yourself into the bed. You grab the comforter and gather it in your hands, holding a small section in your first. It's something you've always done. A habit from your childhood.

And, as he always does, he whines. He tugs at the covers, and you let some of the fabric slip from your grip. You don't let him know that, though; you let him have some semblance of satisfaction. "You always steal the damned covers, you bastard."

"How much of you really needs to be warm," you counter.

He lets forth a pitiful whine. Nonetheless, he shifts his weight. He wraps his arm around you and pulls you closer to him. He buries his face in your hair, and some odd sense in the pit of your stomach senses that he's smiling.

Clearly, this isn't how you thought your life would turn out. But, for now, you're happy. You're not exactly sure how long it will last, but you're going to enjoy it while you can.

 

* * *

 

**{Tuesday / May 3 RD / 12:30 AM}**

**Your name is Dave Strider…**

"I will get rid of you if it's the last thing I do." The voice on the other end of the line is muffled and distorted. The pitch is obviously altered, and the words are garbled.

In return, you simply nod. It's a pointless gesture, seeing as you're talking on a phone, but you do so anyhow. "That's fucking great," you grumble, rubbing your eyes. "Can't we talk about this later?" From where you're parked, you can see the RV. It's highlighted against the starry sky.

Technically, you shouldn't be parked here. Hell, no one should. You literally pulled off the side of the road, drove a few yards into the woods, and threw on the brakes.

Not that the legality of your parking is that important. And that's especially true when you add in the fact that this Deep Throat fucker has been harassing you for the past few months.

"You're a nuisance," the voice on the other end goads, "A pest."

"That's fucking amazing. Call some experts about that," you mutter. "Look, asshole, it's midnight. I applaud your dedication. Really, I'm fucking floored that you've got it in you to call me this late, but I'm going to bed."

A distorted electronic laugh. As you pull the phone away to hang up, you hear one final remark. "Watch your back, Dave Strider."

"Thanks for the advice, Creep Zone." With that, you press the red button. You shove your dying phone into your pocket and return to the RV. With what little money you had, you couldn't spare enough to upgrade. It's got a standard door, and your budget wasn't flexible enough to stretch out for a lift. Instead, you awkwardly lift yourself in through the front door and pull your chair in after you.

Naturally, you return to bed.

"The hell was that?" Karkat grumbles.

You think about telling him. Ultimately, you shoot that idea down faster than Santa would be if he flew over Area 51. "Nothing. Go back to sleep, loser."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> suggestions for future chapters, comments, concerns, and all that are always welcome!


	3. Anything can happen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Someday Man" by Paul Williams](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gmoejUaK4dA)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is super short and probably setup for something that i'll get to eventually

**Tuesday / May 3 rd / 8:00 AM**

**Your name is Karkat Vantas…**

He smirks at you as if you're the key to some long-forgotten ancient treasure. A valuable commodity of some unknown value. He prods at you as if you're some unknown species of glowing fungus. Glowing, slimy, Jell-O like fungus.

"We're out of gas," he says matter-of-factly. He rummages through his pockets before turning them inside out, revealing them to be empty. Not even an errant ball of lint is visible.

"Well," you suggest, "Where are we?" You try to look through the windows, but it's too dark to tell where you really are. "Please tell me we're near civilization."

Dave shrugs. He lifts himself up, rubs the back of his neck, and yawns. "My best guess is that we're in the middle of fucking nowhere. On the bright side, there's a lovely little pond with some cute ducks a few yards away."

"That…" pausing for a moment, you eye over Dave. He's as calm and levelheaded as always. He leans back in his chair like a disaffected CEO in the midst of a massive economic collapse. "You're not helping," you eventually manage to get out.

"Well," he offers, "What else do we do? It's not like we can exactly call for help in a van that I probably shouldn't be driving across the country. Did I mention the warrant? There's a warrant, too. Big, big warrant. So big." He waves his hands in the air, clumsily miming the action of trying to grasp a large cauldron or ball. "I may or may not have hijacked this bus. At the very least, I bought it with a check that bounced further than one of those ultra bouncy balls."

"Those don't bounce very fucking far," you grumble. You fold your arms across your chest and roll your eyes until they're point skyward. In doing this, you notice a small dent in the ceiling. It's positioned directly above where Dave sleeps, so you make the most logical conclusion possible. "Your fucking thick skull does, Strider."

"Strider?" whines Dave, "What's with the sudden formality?"

"Nothing." You shrug. "Look, we're stuck in the middle of nowhere, and we're on a few people's shit lists. I'll be genuinely surprised if this ends without any goddamned bull going down."

"Picture this," Dave chimes in, "We're both holding a potato gun. But, instead of potatoes, it fires shit. Pure, putrid, gross shit. And there's a fan right in front of us." As if this is a revelation worthy of a new section of the bible, he nods. "We're pretty crystal clear on that, so we'll deal with whatever comes when it comes." A pause. A poorly stifled snicker. "And don't take that in a dirty way."

"I won't, but you already have."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same thing. Comments and feedback are welcome. And suggestions.


	4. Life is just a dream you know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Blue" from _Cowboy Bebop_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YeUQ1TkCx9E)

**Wednesday / May 4 th / 3:00 PM**

**Your name is Karkat Vantas...**

"This was an awful idea, Strider." You fold your arms across your chest and stare at the ugly, washed-out fake wood paneling of the RV. You tilt the chair you're sitting in back on its rear legs. "Like, no offense... No. Full offense. This an absolutely batshit idea even from you. And that's saying  _a lot_."

Dave scoffs. In the far peripherals of your vision, you see him picking at a scab on his ankle. (Mosquitoes are tiny assholes, and they deserve to be herded into a box and that box should then be hurled at the sun.) "You're just salty because the shower broke."

Like an annoyed mother, you stride purposefully towards him and swat his hand away from the scab. It's not as if it itches, either. He can't damned well feel it, so picking at it is just asking for some sort of strange infection. "That's one problem. The other problem is that I'm looking after a grown-ass adult who acts like he's five fucking years old." With this said, you run your fingers through your hair and breathe another long, agitated sigh. "We're out of clean clothes, too, so that's  _another_ strike on the long, running list of bullshit."

"Cry me a fuckin' river," Dave shrugs. He leans back in his chair and folds his hands behind his head. If it wasn't for the fact that he's in a grimy red and white baseball shirt and his stupid, ugly candy cane striped boxers, it would be the perfect executive power pose. (Not that you're complaining. The shirt is just tight enough for you to see the muscles of his arms and shoulders. Defined, but not grossly refined like a bodybuilder's. It also shows off what could be classified as a slight beer belly, which you find rather cute. You could go without the boxers, though.) "We've got enough to go visit a laundromat, right?"

You shrug. "Probably."

"Then we'll do that. Cross something off of the List of Things Karkat Complains Incessantly About."

"Sounds fair." You frown. By now, a streak of bright red is running down Dave's ankle and dripping onto the footplate of his chair. "You fucking idiotic man-baby," you grumble, trudging off to retrieve a bandage from the overhead compartment. As you return, you continue your tirade, "Why do you insist on picking every fucking scab you see?"

"It's interesting," he admits.

"Not for me." After peeling off the paper on the sticky portions of the bandage, you pass kneel down beside him and haphazardly stick it to the approximately correct spot. You'd never hold up as an actual nurse, but you consider yourself an expert at halfheartedly dealing with random bullshit.

* * *

 

**Wednesday / May 4 th / 7:30 PM**

The laundromat is practically empty by the time you and Dave show up. Not that this is in any way surprising. It's a tiny town to begin with, and a solid ten minute's drive will put you a handful of miles away from it, and that's if you start at its edge. The entire place smells like sweat and piss, and the crackling overhead speakers make it sound like the place where dreams go to die. It's an anti-Disney World, and you're as happy as anyone would expect you to be.

It doesn't help that Dave's been oddly quiet for a majority of the time you've been in here.

You eye the timer. Another half an hour before you can even dry your clothes. It'll be a while before you can get out of this dump.

Seeing as there's nothing else to do, you turn your attentions to Dave. "Feeling okay, Strider?"

"Music sucks in here," Dave grumbles.

Clearly, this isn't the real issue, but you're not about to dig your heels in and start some sort of shit. A laundromat in an unfamiliar town isn't exactly the place to start shit with your boyfriend. "How much medication do you have left?"

"Depends on what it's for," he shrugs. "Pain, spasms, fever, anxiety, or depression?" From where you're sitting, you're treated to a profile view. You can see him roll his eyes, and you notice the faint twitch of his lips—a swift, tiny movement, which twists his normally passive expression into a snarl.

Nonetheless, you keep the conversation going. You've got nothing better to do, so you know that he's just as bored as you are. Besides, you're trying to prove a concept to yourself. If you can survive running away like love-struck dipshits with this idiot, you'll have a pretty solid basis for a relationship. "Let's roll the fucking dice and go for the first two."

"Both are out," Dave huffs.

(That explains something.)

"And everything else?"

A nonchalant shrug. "All the bottles are emptier than beer bottles at a frat house." He frowns, presses the heel of his palm against his shaking left leg, and eyes the washing machine's timer. And, around then, the bells tied above the door ring.

Your eyes sweep to the man in the doorway—a near-identical clone of Dave. Same shades, albeit these are pointy anime shades, and the same white hair. Same pale skin and look of perpetual apathy.

His fashion sense is different, though. He wears a plain orange baseball cap and a white t-shirt.

And, as soon as this man enters, Dave tenses. He ducks his head and backs closer to the wall than he already was. "We need to leave," he growls. "Now."

"But we still have clothes in the—"

"Now," Dave snaps.

Clearly, this is some serious shit. So, you do the only thing you can think of. You open the washing machine, pull the still-wet clothes out, and follow Dave as you sprint into the parking lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who's still alive! it's me!


	5. The Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is pretty much where the story really kicks off. no i have no idea how this is gonna go.

**Friday / May 13 th / 10:00 AM**

The heat is oppressive. It weighs down on you. It perches on your chest and sits there, weighing itself against your ability to breathe. Sweat soaks through everything, and you're certain that this vehicle will end up as the poster child for mold by the time this is over. With that said, you  _know_ it's got to be hell for Dave.

He's even said so. Not that he directly complained. No, that's too straightforward for him. Instead, he's made offhanded comments about things. You've also noticed how little he's doing these days. Just getting out of bed is enough to run him down. Aside from that, he has to keep himself cool. ("Of course I do," he'll say. "I've got an image to uphold.") It's the world's most annoying game of fetch. You're the dog, and the bone is water. Back and forth. Back and forth.

You've been pulling all-nighters. One after the other. It's all to appease Dave's increasing anxiety. And he's yet to tell you what it's all for.

But, at least, he's offered to drive.

He's been growing more and more distant, so that gesture of goodwill went a long way.

"You look tired," he muttered, earlier this morning. "Let me drive."

Naturally, you objected. "You can barely keep yourself sitting up straight, Strider," you said, "I doubt you can drive."

He, however, was insistent. (Aside from that, you weren't really putting up much of a fight.) "Trust me. I wouldn't put an ass as fine as yours on the line."

You gave in.

Now, though, you're rudely awaken by the fact that you've been thrown from the bed and onto the floor. You're certain that nothing is broken, and you're able to easily get back onto your feet, but you're pissed as hell. "Strider," you shout, "Dammit, Dave..." Your voice fades as your mind registers what's around you. The interior is completely fucked. Things have fallen off the shelves, only to break as they hit the floor. You can't see any road out of the windows, and, after clambering over broken plywood furnishings, you can only assume that you veered off the road and hit a tree.

If there's one consolation, it's that the way the RV was built lent itself to durability. The front is crushed like a tin can, but there's not much more beyond that. Sure, the interior has been trashed, but there's not any visible structural damage. You're not all that concerned about that sort of shit, though. No, your concern is Dave.

He's awake, aware, and responding. That's a plus. The blood soaking through his jeans and the rapid breathing are not, though.

"He knows where we are," Dave speaks before you can. "Look, it's probably crazy, but I've probably thrown him off for a while."

"Who the hell are you talking about?" You groan. He's been babbling like this for days, and you're not so sure it's just the heat getting to him. "Dave, you're freaking me the fuck out. I can't help if you're talking in bullshit code."

"Bro," Dave snaps.

"Bro is in Texas," you try to reassure him. At this point, you're also trying to reassure yourself. Surely, this is just shock. Dave saw something that spooked him at the laundromat, and he's just winding down from it. If you were in his position, you'd be jumpy, too. It's just the jitters. Stress. "Let me look at your leg."

A nervous half-smile. "Nah. Let's not do that."

"It's just a little blood, you wimp." You scuttle over the debris, retrieve the roll of gauze, and return. "Look, let's try it this way." You edge over until your gaze is level with Dave's. With the height difference, it takes a bit of balancing, but you've already gotten yourself knee-deep in whatever sort of shit you're in now. You might as well follow through with it. Your gaze locks onto his, which is an easy task after the lenses of his shades are thoroughly shattered. "We'll start with an easy one. What's your name, asshole?"

"Dave Strider." He answers confidently, as he damned well should. If he hadn't, you'd be concerned. But, he did, so you continue.

"What's your favorite color?"

"Red."

"Favorite animal?"

"Crow. Maybe dogs. Either." He frowns. His off-center gaze strays slightly.

"Eyes on me, Strider," you snap.

He obeys. "Fine. What's the point of this shitty questions game, anyhow?"

"I'm distracting you, you fucking soggy circus peanut." You roll your eyes. " _Mierda_."

"Not fair. I don't speak Spanish."

"Whatever." You continue going about your business. By now, you've managed to clean off the wound. It's gnarly, but it's not severe. If anything, the worst that could happen is a nifty new scar after it heals. "You're losing your focus. Something harder. Who the fuck are we supposed to be running from?" (If you can't get it out of him when he's 100% lucid, maybe you'll get some information out of him when he's in shock.)

"My brother. He's got this thing in his head that I'm his property." Dave shrugs. He folds his arms across his chest. "He'll also be pissed if he figures out I'm in a gay relationship. That'll be a big kick in the nuts, which is funny, seeing as I can't kick." A quiet snicker. Then, a pensive sigh.

You push him further. "You think he knows where we are?"

"Totally. Absolutely. Fuckin' definitely."

As carefully as you can, you begin wrapping the wound. While you know that he can't register any pain, you're still hesitant to do anything that might cause a negative reaction. "Okay. Then we'll stay out of sight." You finish your job and secure the wound's dressings before stumbling to your feet. "There. That wasn't as much of a shitfest as you thought it would be, right?"

"Oh, no. It was. I'm suing you," Dave responds, his usual whit returning.

* * *

**Friday / May 13 th / 8:00 PM**

**Your name is Dave Strider...**

If you'd ever wanted to know what you wanted to do when you were an "adult" when you were a kid, it sure as hell wasn't this.

Crammed into a freezing cold motel shower. An empty bottle of cheap whiskey in one hand, a phone in the other, and not a drop of water on anything.

"You thought you lost me, didn't you?" A voice snarls into the phone.

"Leave me alone, you fucking bastard!" You want to shout, but you can't. With Karkat a thin wall away and having just fallen asleep, you can't wake him. Instead, the best you can do is to whisper angrily. And you know it's nothing to the asshole on the other end of the line. "Don't you have anything better to do with your life?"

"Yeah, I do. I've got to get my fucked-over faggot brother straight." There's the sound of yelling on the other end. "Look, I'll give you a deal. You bring your lame, useless ass to me and I won't touch your stupid boyfriend."

"I can't do that to Karkat... They'll be..." You set down the bottle and bury your face in your hands. "Can you promise me that you'll leave them alone?"

" _Him_?" he says, emphasizing his words. You cringe as he continues. "Yeah. Sure, kid, I'll leave him alone. But you've got to promise to come back to me. And you need to be damned well ready for the beating of a lifetime. You didn't run me into the ground for nothing, kid. You'll be even more broken than you were before."

A long, deep breath in. "Fine."

"A week. You have one week." There's a hint of a snicker—the tonal qualities of a person who's smiling—in his voice. "I want to watch you squirm, kid. Twist like the fucking roach beneath my thumb."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the fluff that turned to weird drama action movie: the fanfic


	6. K 504

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because i'm a nerd, i now name each chapter after a mozart song by köchel catalogue number

**Saturday / May 14 th / 6:00 AM**

**Your name is Karkat Vantas...**

Using information gleaned from the internet, you're doing your best to keep track of Dave's wound. You've gathered some rubbing alcohol, disinfectant, bandages, and other necessities. All of this you did after managing to haul what little medical supplies, clothes, and personal effects were left in the wrecked RV to the nearest motel. And that took a solid seven hours. Nonetheless, you expect to wake up and get straight to work with Dave and whatever the hell else you've dragged yourself into.

Instead, you get a pleasant surprise.

Dave's up, dressed in a ratty red shirt, and ready with as kind of an offer that he can present. A bag of cold breakfast biscuits from the local fast food joint. He's set these up on the oversized two-seater table. It's grimy, poorly repaired with what seems to be layer upon layer of duct tape, and just the repurposed, mismatched bar stools are a solid three feet off the ground. It's an absolute mystery to you how Dave's positioned himself in one of these, especially with his leg wrapped like the most pants-shittingly awful hybrid of a mummy and a Christmas present.

"You're awake early," he comments. "You always get up at the same time as deep southern farmers?"

"Not usually," you yawn, stretch your arms above your head, and rub your eyes. "It's been a bit of a necessity lately, what with this strange idiot, who acts like a five-year-old, I've been hanging out with lately." You stumble up to the free barstool, which even you have to try a few times to get onto. "What's the big occasion?"

"Nothing," Dave shrugs. "You're a cute asshole, though, so there's that."

"You flatter me too much, Strider."

"Hm." Another shrug. His fingers run through his hair, tousling each strand like some cliché field of snow white wheat. (Or, perhaps, not so clichéd after all.) "I paid for the room for the next week, too. So we're covered. No need to worry your fugly little head about that shit."

You pause. After swallowing some of your sub-par sausage biscuit, you quirk your brow. "I didn't know you had money. Nice to know for the future, though. What about Bro?"

Dave scoffs. "Bro is old news."

Though you sense something is wrong, you're not prepared to ruin the moment. For now, everything is fine. And that is how it shall remain until you're at least partially awake. "You know," you say, keeping your suspicions to yourself, "We've been together for a while and I don't think we've ever talked about what you want to do with yourself, Strider."

"Hm." There's a small shrug, which precedes a moment of thought. "Besides the record store, I wanted to be a big time musician. The type of guy whose name's plastered in lights up and down the DC mall. My concerts would get advertised on the big screen in Times Square, and they'd sell out faster than Beyoncé's."

"Big dreams, buddy." You finish the last of your biscuit before slipping off of the barstool. You then offer to help Dave down. After he accepts, you lift him up and put him back into his wheelchair.

He, meanwhile, responds to your commentary as he repositions himself. "I've got one of those nice faces," he smirks. "People recognize me."

"I think that's your shit personality that they're recognizing, Dave." You snicker, check the clock, and make a sudden decision to return to bed. As you make your way in that direction, you can't help but notice Dave following.

You don't stop him.

You let him claim the spot he had last night. His fingers run through your hair, and his breath warms the back of your neck. For both of you, it's an oddly saccharine moment; not that you don't enjoy it.

Besides, you feel that both of you are entitled to some relaxation after all the shit you've been slogging through.

* * *

**Saturday / May 14 th / 7:00 AM**

**Your name is Kankri Vantas...**

You've done some stupid shit in your life, but this takes the cake. This takes the cake, runs with it, and scores fifteen touchdowns in a row with it.

You only meant to get rid of Dave. You didn't like the bastard, and you still don't. You think he's a lazing sack of shit, willing to mooch off of your family for as long as he wants. But your questionable people-judging skills aren't the point. No, the point is the huge mistake that you've made. You teamed up with Dave's brother, a seemingly kind man, who insisted upon you calling him "Bro". That was odd, but not exactly questionable. He seemed like a concerned guardian.

So, you gave him everything you had. You told him about the tracker on Karkat's phone and gave him access to the details.

You didn't want Dave dead. You just wanted him out of the picture.

* * *

**Saturday / May 14th / 11:00 AM**

**Your name is Karkat Vantas...**

"Come on," he taunts you as he rushes ahead, speeding down the moderate incline before you. By some odd quirk of physics, he's able to stay upright and in motion despite the uneven sidewalk. "You suck, Kark. Get that ass in gear."

"Ugh." You groan. "What's got you so fucking perky? Someone shove a firecracker up your ass?"

"That sounds like a problematic kink," Dave tuts, having reached the bottom of the hill. "It's just a nice day, dude. Where's your zeal for life?"

"It melted in the fucking heat," you return.

He shrugs.

Again, you sense there's something wrong, but you're not about to break the illusion of peace. You'll take every minute of normality that you can get, even if it means lying to yourself. "Whatever. I've got some money. You want to go grab some pizza?"

"You never know about those pizza places. Pepperoni is the best meat to hide deadly poison in." As usual, the line is delivered with a completely straight face. Nothing belays sincerity; nothing suggests insincerity.

You, however, have come to appreciate his drole sense of humor. You roll your eyes and snicker. "I'll see if there's a Pizza Hut around here, then."

"Then we'll both drop dead. Like Romeo and Juliette, but with more pizza sauce."

* * *

**Saturday / May 14 th / 10:00 PM**

**Your name is Dave Strider...**

"Six days, li'l man. Six days. And I _will_ find you. I'll find you and kick the sense back into you."

You do your best to shrug off the commentary. You've managed to secure yourself s significant other, so that's a pretty good place to start. If anything, you made it this far.

"And, if you don't show up, I will show that Karkat bastard what happens when he screws with my puppets."

"Understood." You force the word out of your mouth, and it still has a bad, sour taste to it.

Thankfully, the phone call ends there. You bury your phone in your sack of meager remaining possessions and return to where Karkat is watching some asinine game show. You force a smile.

"Who called?" The question is thrown out like a casual statement.

And you answer in the same vein. "Spam call," you lie. "Don't bust a fuckin' vein over it."

The briefest moment of hesitancy gives way to a nod. You accept this as an answer.


End file.
